


Green Eyed

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Interactive Fiction, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-14 00:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3401300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She envies her fictional self. It's the latest in a long line of things she hates him for, though hate . . . It's not quite the right word. She hates him for that, too. The fact that he has her fumbling for vocabulary. She hates him for it. Or whatever." One shot, set between "Fool Me Once" (2 x 04) and "When the Bough Breaks" (2 x 05)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Eyed

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A couple mild spoilers for Heat Wave, if you care. If you haven't read the Nikki Heat books, I think the things I refer to are straightforward enough that it shouldn't be confusing.

She envies her fictional self. It's the latest in a long line of things she hates him for, though hate . . . it's not quite the right word. She hates him for that, too. The fact that he has her fumbling for vocabulary. She hates him for it. Or whatever.

It's a jumble in her mind. Whatever's going on in _his_ mind. Whatever it is he thinks he knows about her is scattered. It's stacked in haphazard piles of insight she could just _kill_ him for putting on the page, and other things that are so off—so wrong and untrue—that they make her want to do stupid things like stamp her foot and demand an explanation.

Which she's kind of doing right now. She hates him for that, too. She _whatever_ s him for that, because here she is, blurting it out.

_"_ An actress, Castle? What the hell?"

And she hates him for smirking. She hates the way his eyes light up and he gives her that once over that makes her just want to wrap her hands around his throat.

"An actress." He repeats it, and there's not the faintest hint of apology. There's pride. Curiosity. "That's what Nikki wanted to be when she grew up."

It twists something a little harder inside of Kate. It eats at her, the way he turns inward. The way he's fascinated with his own creation just _bugs_ her. It's all she can do to let it go. To keep her mouth shut.

For all the good it does her. He shakes himself. Breaks from his reverie and reads her body language. Her stiff shoulders and the way she angles her chin away from him.

"Nikki wanted to be an actress. But she's made up, Beckett." He leans in close and lets the words hover at her ear. "She's not you."

* * *

 

She's made up. That's for sure.

Nikki Heat: Preternaturally together, then falling apart, just so. Bubble baths and blackout margaritas. Naked—actually _naked_ —as she battles for her life on the kitchen floor. And just for a dash of color, she likes her sex and violence all wrapped up in one neat, imaginary package, and where the hell did that little tidbit come from, anyway? Nikki's "personal trainer with benefits." She hates the nasty, slick feel of the phrase.

She hates the name. _Don._ Nobody's name is Don.

They're stuck in traffic. She's annoyed with him. With everything, and she doesn't even realize she's said it out loud until his head is swiveling toward her. Until he's looking through her the way he does sometimes.

"Don," he repeats. "That bothers you. _That?_ "

She snorts. Traffic loosens and she eases the car into a space hardly big enough. Just the right amount of acceleration and a jerk of the wheel that's timed so perfectly, the guy she's just cut off doesn't even lay on the horn or crank down the window to lean out and scream. He doesn't even flip her off, he just stares in awe.

"Nice." Castle's eyes are alight as his head whips around to give the guy a wave. "Very Nikki." He sweeps an appreciative grin over her.

"Bothers me." She mutters. She doesn't mean circle back to it. She didn't mean to say anything out loud in the first place, but now she can't seem to let it go. "Hardly."

"Hardly." He savors the word. He smiles around it, like he can taste the consonants, the sharp edge on the _d_ and the soft unfurling of the _l._ She can tell he wants to pull out his notebook. She can feel his fingers flexing on the seat at his side, curling around a pen that isn't there. "So, just mumbling the names of random men, then?"

She clamps her teeth together. She's not saying anything else. Not a thing.

"Random men it is," he says exactly one beat after she's sure he's finally let it go. He smiles out the window, his face tipped away from her. She doesn't need to see, though, to know what it looks like. It looks exactly like he's just unearthed the deepest secrets of her underwear drawer. "Interesting."

* * *

 

She keeps her mouth shut after that. She manages, but that's no good either. The damned thing hasn't even come out yet, but there are all kinds of sneaks through the website. And she _swears_ he must have leaked copies to everyone in Manhattan. Certainly everyone at the twelfth, as far as she can tell. It's all anyone's talking about.

Or _not_ talking about the minute she enters the room— _any_ room—and there's a sudden outbreak of diligence. That's the best case scenario. Standard operating procedure for those who know her. And then there are those who don't. Those who ogle in passing or stare at her dead on. The ones who mouth _bitch_ or worse when she stares back. When she calls them on it.

"It's not me. It's _you_."

They're sitting on the edge of her desk when she blurts _that_ out. It's been a long, shitty day, and her case is dead in the water. She's staring and stubborn and should have left hours ago, but the damned magazine article's due out now, and she's no fucking cover girl. She just wants to _work._ She wants to get lost in it and forget all about Nikki Heat and _Cosmo_ and _him,_ but here he is. She's told him to leave. They're absolutely stalled until the world wakes up again tomorrow, and she's told him to leave a dozen times. But here he is, just as stubborn.

"Me?" His head swivels toward her. He shrugs affably. "It's usually me, but what this time?"

"Don." She should shut up. Just in general, but tonight especially. There's something odd about him. He's strangely subdued, like he's sorry about all this or something. Like he's here in solidarity and that's bullshit. She should just shut up. " _You're_ the one who has a Don, not me."

"A Don?" He smiles a little. "No. Not even a boarding school fumble, Beckett. Sorry."

"Sorry?" She stammers. "What?" She feels red rushing down from her scalp and up from her toes, meeting in the middle.

"For torching your fantasy about me and Don." He leans a little closer. There's more than a bit of leer in it—there always is—but less than she'd expect. He's amused, and something else. An open book for once, maybe. Oddly sincere, when she would have expected defensive. A typical guy bristling at the very idea, even though it's not what she meant at all. It's _strange_ and unexpected, and she hates him for it. "Tell me another one. I'll try to do better."

" _Donna,_ " she snaps and it hits her. Don. Donna. Guy. Gal. Generic and faceless and convenient. Clever, and she _hates_ that she's only just gotten it now. "Interior decorator and . . . whatever. Functionary with benefits. That's you, not me."

"Functionary," he echoes. "Ouch." He flashes her a look. Hurt, but respect, too, like it's a fair cop.

It pisses her off, that look. It tugs at her conscience and pisses her off. "Well, they don't exactly rise to the level of friends, do they?"

"Sometimes." There's a little edge in that. Something that might have hit the spot if he didn't look a little lost, too. "Not usually." His gaze flicks to her, then back to the board. He shifts away a little and that's not satisfying, either. Not the way it should be. "It's not a bad thing. If everyone's on the same page."

She's silent. She could kick herself for opening her mouth in the first place. She doesn't want to be having this conversation. She doesn't even know what this conversation _is,_ other than terrible and awkward and not really about either of them. But not really about Nikki or Rook or Don, either. Not just them.

"I don't think it's a bad . . ." He breaks off when her head snaps toward him. He holds up a hand and works his jaw, like he's just as frustrated with himself as she is with him. Like that's possible. "I just mean . . ." He shakes his head. "Never mind. Shutting up."

She lifts her chin like she's satisfied, because she should be. It should feel like she's won this round, but there's that tug again. Conscience or something. Embarrassment bleeding in, because he's talking about Nikki now. Definitely about Nikki, and the look she just gave him was every bit about shutting _him_ down. Here with her. With them, and this is a _mess._ It's an excruciating mess.

She's about to say something. A mumbled apology or maybe a move like she's calling it a night. Anything to get them out of this, but he's talking all of a sudden. Words flooding out, timid and sure and rehearsed and in progress, all that the same time.

"It's just . . a mystery." He looks at her. "You're . . . hot," he says at last. It's not what he meant. She knows from the way his eyes linger that he meant something softer and altogether more dangerous. He rushes on again, like there's part of him trying to stop.

"You get all kinds of attention, and it's not like you don't know that, even though you're . . . reserved . . ." there's hesitation there, too, and she doesn't know which direction he'd rather have gone, gentler or less so. "Self-disciplined," he adds, and that's closer to right. For him, anyway, and that makes one of them.

"But there's nothing . . ." His fingers are suddenly at her wrist, sweeping across the skin as if to find the thump of her pulse. "There's nothing cold about you. You're . . .passionate." He blinks down, a little embarrassed by the word. More than that, surprised to find himself touching her. There's a certain hint of slyness curving his lips. It's not a smile, but it's as if the point of contact gives him some of his swagger back. He pulls his fingers away, but he's in no hurry about it. He meets her eyes, better prepared now. "It's not a bad thing that Nikki has . . . I don't think less of her. And if you do—if it makes you . . ."

"No." She gets a syllable at last. She breaks the strange spell this has had her under. "Not . . . it's just . . . not true. There's no Don."

He raises an eyebrow and she can practically see it on the tip of his tongue. _Now? Ever? Never ever? Really?_

She can see it all. That eager curiosity and the spark that's always there. She's back to hating him. She's just about there when he lets it go. When he drops his chin in a nod and . . . backs off for once in his life.

"No Don," he says.

* * *

 

They walk out together. He moves to go not long after, and she feels strangely like she owes him. Like it's her move on the strange terrain of this . . . friendship, or whatever it is. _Whatever._ There's nothing happening anyway, so she might as well go, too.

"Taking her home?" He nods to the line of Crown Victorias snugged bumper to bumper along the curb. Her usual is in there somewhere. She hasn't bothered to sign it back in.

"No." It's a decision she makes just then. Night air and a subway ride with strangers seem like a good idea. It's a decision she makes in an instant, because she's not sure whether or not he's hinting for a ride home. If he is, some clanging part of her is not having that at all.

He just nods, though. He inclines his head, and of course there's no real reason they shouldn't walk together for the couple of blocks they have in common. But the clanging part of her is an idiot who didn't think of that, apparently.

She falls into step beside him. He flicks a glance at the size of the gap she's left, but doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything at all until the corner comes up where she goes one way and he goes the other. He rounds on her, then, though. He steps too close with his shoulders square like he's been building to this in his head. Rehearsing again.

"I'm jealous, too, you know."

"Jealous!" Her eyes are wide. He mouth opens and closes soundlessly too many times before she can go on. "I am _not_ jealous."

He gives her a long, searching look. One that flatly says he doesn't believe her and she _hates_ him. In that moment _, hate_ is exactly right.

He grins like he knows it. Like he feels it crackling between them and has another name for it. "Just me, then."

"Just you," she snaps. "But you can always kill him off, right?"

"Kill him off?" He looks puzzled. More than that. He looks almost wounded.

"Trainer with benefits?" she prompts with more bonhomie that she feels. She doesn't like the almost wounded look. She doesn't like caring whether or she might have been the one to put it there. "Nikkii's dangerous to know. Wrong place, wrong time. Don problem solved."

"Not Don." He takes a step closer still, looming over her, even though it shouldn't be possible in her heels. He looms over her and she's sure he's going to kiss her. She's not at all sure what she intends to do about it. "I'd never want to be Don."

His voice is low and intimate. It's a chilly fall night on New York street corner, but the air is close all of a sudden, and all she can think of is heat and candlelight and the taste of salt on skin.

"I'd never settle for it," he murmurs. His eyes close and hers follow. He breathes her in. "Never."

He turns and goes. Her eyes open and he's already going.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading. In case you haven't read Heat Wave and it WAS confusing—Castle has Nikki wanting to be a theatre major before her mother's murder, and she has a casual sexual relationship with her personal combat trainer, Don, before she and Rook (Castle's equivalent in the books) are an item.


End file.
